


Something Unimaginable

by masquerad



Category: Harry Potter - J.K. Rowling
Genre: Grief/Mourning, Guilt, HP: EWE, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Mental Illness, Post-Half-Blood Prince AU, Post-War, Sad Christmas feels, Therapy, Top Harry, Unrequited love (not really)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-20
Updated: 2017-08-20
Packaged: 2018-12-17 22:58:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11861394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/masquerad/pseuds/masquerad
Summary: It is so hard to put words to something so unimaginable.





	Something Unimaginable

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this fic comes from the song _It's Quiet Uptown_ from the Hamilton soundtrack. It's a good listen, although it is only loosely related to this fic and was not the inspiration for it at all. It deals with the themes of mourning and grief, which is way I chose to draw from it for the title.

_You can still smell the blood._  


  
You've never considered that perhaps you might've been a mistake, but Harry told you he was. One of the best mistakes the world ever made, according to the papers, since his death was apparently the worst one, but then the papers are never really right. Not with the story, not even with the circumstance. Harry Potter's death wasn't an accident.  
  
Funerals are long and boring so you skipped it, even with an earful from your father about the reputation. The reputation was stomped in the mud when the Wizengamot threw him in Azkaban. You didn't want to listen to it anyway; Ron and Hermione and the like, talking about _your_ Harry. As if they'd known him properly at all, at the end.  


  
_"You're not disgusting," Harry whispered, and you hadn't believed him, you'd never believed a word from his lying mouth. You had let him kiss you, let him slide a hand between your thighs as he said, "you're perfect. You're beautiful, and you're good, and your father is a bastard anyway." You didn't believe him. But you let him kiss you. And you'd let him say he loved you before you left._  


  
You can't help but wonder if it was your fault that Harry had died, even though the other half of you (the rational side, the proud side, the selfish side, you could never tell them apart) says it's impossible. Your Mind Healer agrees with you, although he always agrees, humming along in assent as you dodge the subject of Harry until he weasels in with a question about the story you’re telling that he can somehow segue into talking about Harry again. Everything seems to revolve around him, the entire bloody universe revolves around him, but not yours. You won't give him that satisfaction, of having won you.  
  
You wonder if it's cruel to still be rejecting him even after he's dead, but then every Malfoy has something cruel in their veins and you're no exception. Besides, unless he's manifested as a ghost somewhere, he has no business being upset over the cruelty of an ex lover who was never his lover in the first place.  


  
_Harry learned Healing spells so that he could fix what your father had done to you._ Episkey _could heal your split lip and your bruises,_ Tergeo _cleansed the taste of blood from your mouth and replaced it with something tangy and clinical._  
  
_"The teeth," he said, using a gentle finger to lift your lip and look at your broken front teeth. "The teeth I can't do the spell for. But Hermione can, and I'll get her to do it for you."_  
  
_"Later," you said. "Later." And then you let him pin you beneath him on the bed, and kiss you and lie to you some more_.  


  
You don't sleep very well anymore, and you won't take a potion even though your Healer offers to supply a non-addictive variety. Your Mind Healer talks a lot of shit for all the qualifications he has, actually. He doesn't know how easy it is for someone like you to need something that hurts, and you've become as good as addicted to the rushing feeling of a nightmare.  
  
He asks about your nightmares at every session. Always the same questions. When he asks what they're about, you tell him. _The war. Your father. Voldemort._ What you don't tell him is the second part, the other brand of horror that haunts you. _Green eyes, blood, and a promise._ Luckily, your Healer is not intelligent enough to press further.  


  
_The back garden of the Black house was the only liveable part of it, because flowers were one thing that could never be terrible. It was dark, but you sat on the cold stone bench anyway, looking at the blossoms that had closed up for the night. Harry came outside, still in his bare feet and his pyjamas._  
  
_"Come back to bed, love." His brows were furrowed and he had those bags under his eyes. He'd been so tired for so long._  
  
_"I can't sleep," you said, and looked away from him._  
  
_He sat beside you and you felt the bench shift, pressing deeper into the soft mud beneath it. He put his arms around you and you let him, because it was cold and you were tired and when Harry Potter tries to hug you, it doesn't do any good to say no.  
_

  
Today you have an appointment with your Mind Healer. He sits across from you with his legs crossed at the ankles, his notepad and pen in his hand. His office smells of cigarettes, which isn't helping you quit smoking, but he claims it's just the building since nobody smokes in the office.  
  
"So, Draco. How have you slept this past week?" He taps his pen against that infernal notepad. You can feel your patience growing thinner with each tap.  
  
"Fine." This is always how you answer. You're wondering why he doesn't just skip right to asking about the nightmares.  
  
He writes something down. You hate when he does that, too, but it's better than the tapping. "Any nightmares?"  
  
"Always. I don't know why you bother asking."  
  
"What were they about?"  
  
"Father. And his cane." You pick at your fingernails as you speak, trying to hide the lie that's on your face. You’ve always been such a shit liar.  
  
"The one that he hit you with?"  
  
"No, the one he scratched his arse with. _Yes_ , the one he hit me with." You roll your eyes.  
  
"I feel today would be a good day to talk about your father. We've talked about your mother, and the war, and your time at school— perhaps we could discuss him now."  
  
"I thought this was about going at my pace," you say, just to be an arse. You can't care less what your Healer wants to talk about.  
  
"Sometimes a Healer has to give a little push— but only if you're ready, Draco. You don't ever have to talk about any subject we approach in this room if you aren't ready for it."  
  
You roll your eyes again. At the rate things go in this room, you won't be surprised if your eyes roll all the way out of your sockets someday.  
  
"He beat me. It's pretty standard. Don't you get a lot of battered housewives and the like around here?" You wave your hand in a sort of move-along gesture.  
  
"I'm not permitted to disclose any information about the status of my patients, but—"  
  
"It was a joke. I don't... my father isn't the problem. He's in Azkaban now. I don't care about him, I never did." You sound so angry, and it's funny to hear so much emotion in your voice. The last time you sounded so alive was—  
  
"What do you believe the problem is, Draco? Why are you here now?"  
  
You don't answer. You don't have the words.  


  
_Harry looked so young when he slept. You watched him when he was in the bed beside you, out of curiosity or sheer boredom, you couldn't tell. You didn't sleep much at that point, and there was nothing else to do outside of than laying with him or sitting in the garden. You brushed his fringe off his face, to see that scar. His breath puffed against your wrist. Everything about him was beautiful, right down to this— lines so intricate and clean they almost looked painted on. They were pink and raised against his dark skin, and they spread across most of the right side of his forehead, down into his eyebrow and along the side of his nose. Merlin, you hated him. For being pretty, and for sleeping so peacefully, and for having the audacity to do it beside you._  


  
You hate running into people you know. Even worse, people Harry knew. Granger happens to be at the apothecary the same time you are, and her stare is burning into the back of your neck as you examine jars of asphodel. It's a million times worse than people whispering about you on the street. As you stand, with the most promising looking jar in your hand, she taps you on the shoulder. You know that she is there, but you still jump.  
  
"Draco," she says. "It's been a long time."  
  
You make an affirmative noise and half attempt to move past her, but her hand on your arm stops you.  
  
"What do you want, Hermione?" You sound so inexplicably angry again. You don't know how to swallow it down.  
  
She looks taken aback by your tone. You haven't spoken to her like that since Hogwarts. "I just wanted to ask how you're doing."  
  
"Fine. I'm fine." You would've asked her in return, perhaps, but you're no longer close enough to be considered friends and lately you've decided to go back to being a selfish arsehole.  
  
"You weren't at the funeral." It doesn't sound like an accusation, just a statement. You almost feel bad, because Hermione had been so kind to you, and she'd expected you to come. She must think you're a monster, now.  
  
"Why would I be? He wouldn't want me there."  
  
She shakes her head. "Draco, of course he would. He loved you. And when he was killed—"

  
You cut her off. "You clearly don't know anything about how he felt about me. I have to go pay for this now." You wave the asphodel at her, wrenching your arm away from her hand in the process. She doesn't fight you, just looks at you sadly. There are tears brimming in her eyes.

  
You walk away from her, toward the man at the counter. He's clearly watched the whole exchange, and he doesn't say anything when you place the jar on the counter, just rings it up.  
  
"That'll be one Galleon." You hand him the money and snatch the jar back up. Then you leave, and you try not to think about Hermione.  


  
_Sometimes you could still taste the blood in your mouth. You told him about it, and he'd just stared at you for a long time._  
  
_"Why did he hit you?" he'd asked, as if either of you knew why you'd been beaten as children._  
  
_"That time? Because he'd caught me kissing Theo Nott."_  
  
_Harry's face froze up. It was scary to watch it, to see that boyish happiness fade and be replaced with the possessive, unbridled anger. You knew it too- it was a sort of anger that only came in those who had seen it on the faces of people who were supposed to care about them. Battered housewives, beaten sons of aristocrats, and apparently, The Boy Who Lived._  
  
_"You kissed Theo Nott? We were together, Draco. We said we were exclusive, way back when the war had first started."_  
  
_You didn’t say anything at first. You made yourself ignore the fire in his eyes. When he was angry he was all heat, red and flaming, where you always went cold. Pansy used to tease you about that. You miss her._  
  
_When you realised he was still waiting for you to speak, you took a moment longer to find some words._  
  
_"He kissed me, more like. Father saw the last bit of it. And then, well, you know the rest." You ran your tongue over your front teeth, long healed but always bumpier than before._  
  
_The anger dulled beneath Harry's skin._  
  
_'"Okay."_  
  
_You said sorry, and he said he loved you. You turned over and went to sleep ._  


  
Somewhere between seeing Hermione again and now, the air grew colder. Now you wake up to frost on your windowpane and a light dusting of snow outside your flat. You get up and drink hot tea, with lots of sugar and cream. You answer owls from your mother about Christmas and burn the appointment reminder from your Healer.  
  
Your flat is small but well kept. It's decorated tastefully with paintings from all over the nineteenth century. There are no photographs.  
  
Close to Christmas, you always think about Harry— his stupid ugly jumpers, the Muggle Christmas songs he sang with Hermione, his terrible attempts at wrapping presents. It makes something in your chest squeeze up strangely. Sitting here alone in your flat, with nobody for company other than the owl waiting for your letter, you can't help but wonder if it's loneliness.  


  
_You can still smell the blood._  


  
On Christmas Day, Hermione Floos to your flat. She comes out of the fireplace covered in soot, cheeks red, wearing the same kind of stupid sweater Harry always got for Christmas, right down to the H on the front.  
  
"Draco," she says, breathless, when she sees you on the couch. You're reading the book Mother had bought you, one about Potions that had piqued your interest at Flourish  & Blotts last time you'd been there together.  
  
"How did you find my flat?" You've spent lots of money to be nearly unfindable, save to those in the DMLE who are required to check up on you yearly and— oh.  
  
"I work for the Ministry," she says, cheeks pinking further. Hermione never liked breaking rules. "I know it's rather rude of me, to invite myself over, but I wanted to wish you a happy Christmas, and..."  
  
She stops. You close the book and set it aside. "And what?"  
  
"Don’t you understand?" She's red as a tomato, exasperated, and probably about to shout at you.  
  
"I don't know what you’re talking about. Please explain." You keep your tone painfully civil.  
  
"Four years we fought a bloody war, we slept in the same room and cried together and you were our friend! Harry fucking _died_ , and you didn't show up to the funeral, made yourself untraceable, Ron and I were worried sick, thinking you'd decided to off yourself and— Jesus, Draco. What happened?"  
  
You take a deep breath, make your voice as flat and emotionless as possible. It doesn't work. Your voice is thick with a year of pent up grief, six years of everything you've felt staying stuffed in your chest and your throat and anywhere else that could hold it.  
  
"Harry wouldn't have wanted me there. He— never mind. Please get out of my flat, Hermione."  
  
She steps closer.  
  
"Draco."  


  
_The biggest lie Harry Potter ever told you was not 'I love you.' It wasn't even 'I'm sorry.' It was 'I won't.'_  


  
"You weren't there," you say. "You don't even know what happened!"  
  
"What do you mean?" 

Your throat feels like it’s closing up. Your Healer calls this a panic attack. You call it an inconvenience. Hermione is staring at you, face all pinched and pink and confused. You feel tears come to your eyes.

  
"He wasn't _murdered_ . He—” You stop. It is so hard to put words to something so unimaginable.  


  
_You can still smell the blood. It was on your hands, on his hands, everywhere. You told yourself it wasn't your fault, you couldn't have stopped it, you couldn't have saved him._  
  
_You knew deep down that you couldn't have, but something else was telling you that you were wrong._  


  
You've never said it out loud before.  


  
_The Aurors came with Healers and body bag._  


  
"Do you mean...?"  
  
You have never been so thankful that Hermione is smart.  
  
  
_"Lying in questioning is a punishable offence," the Auror said— you had already forgot his name._  
  
_You knew he was just reviewing the rules, but it felt like an accusation._  
  
  
"Yes." Something inside you breaks with the admission.

 

“There was so much blood, how could—” 

“A curse, a bad one, shot at the mirror. They said it probably wasn’t instant but—" your voice breaks. "—but he was unconscious.” You bury your face in your hands. Hermione sits beside you.

“Was he sad?” Her voice is shaky and tentative. You can hear the tears there.

“All the time, but he promised me he wouldn’t try anything and I _believed_ him. It’s my fault, it’s all my fault and I couldn’t even look at you and Ron— Merlin, I’m so sorry.”

It’s the first time you’ve truly cried for him since you found him. Hermione draws you into her arms and her hand comes up to stroke your hair, and it feels far too much like what you used to do for Harry and it’s just _too much, too much._ You can’t breathe, you can’t speak, so you just sob into her shirt and let her hold you. Fuck, you’ve missed her.

“It was never your fault. Harry wouldn’t want you to blame yourself,” she murmurs, so gentle with you although she was near-shouting minutes ago. Hermione has always been a bit of a mother hen.

“I didn’t ever tell him I loved him.” And there it is, out in the air so plainly it hurts. The guiltiest part, the thing you couldn’t even admit to yourself, that you pretended not to love him even when it filled your chest to the point of breathlessness. 

“Oh, Draco. He knew. He knew you loved him, I’m sure of it.”

You try to believe her.

  


_Springtime was his favourite season. That was always something you found endearing— his admiration of the flowers as they pushed up through the earth, the way he could stay out in the foggy morning for hours just to smell the air— it’s so hard to have so many memories but you’re learning. The cemetery is beautiful, blooming. The ground is wet and squelches beneath your Oxfords. It’s his favourite kind of day, and it hurts terribly to smell the damp spring air. You find the stone, right beside his parents’. It’s small and modest and no bigger than theirs, and no statue or monument has been erected in Godric’s Hollow. You think he’d be thankful._

_The flowers you chose were wildflowers, purple and yellow and blue. You’d never got him flowers when he was alive, so you made up for it by picking them yourself on the edge of Malfoy Manor’s grounds. You hope he appreciates it._

_You lay them on the ground over the spot where his head must be. There are no other flowers beside the stone. Hermione told you that the site of his burial is secret, but the public have the big monument in Diagon Alley to weep over. It was funny at the time. Not now, when you might do some weeping of your own._

_“Harry,” you say. It’s strange, talking to the air, the earth, the trees. “Harry, I’m sorry. Hermione says you knew that I love you, but I had to come tell you myself. You were—” you choke, run a hand through your hair. Try again. “You were so good to me, even when I wasn’t nice to you. And I’m sorry I wasn’t better. I know you wouldn’t want me to feel bad, and I’m working on it, but I do. Feel bad, that is.” It’s funny. With the way you’re talking, you sound rather like Harry._  

_“I don’t believe in an afterlife, never did, but I know you did, so I’m trying to imagine that for you.And I hope you’re happy wherever you are, because I always wanted you to be happy. I’m sorry you were so sad when you were alive. You deserve the happiness, you’ve done enough to make everyone else feel happy. That’s all I had to say. I planned this out for you, and you can’t even hear me.” You sigh. “I’m just going to… I’m just going to stay here for a while, okay?_

  
_You cast an_ Impervius, _and you sit, and you stay even after it begins to rain. The droplets fall on your face and you laugh, because Harry would. You let them clean the tears and sadness off your skin, until you almost feel light. It’s such a strange sensation, to feel so not guilty. It’s one you could get used to. You tilt your face up to the sky and feel the rain and think of his smile._

**Author's Note:**

> Please kudos, comment, and bookmark if you enjoyed <3
> 
> You can find me on tumblr [here.](https://masquerad.tumblr.com) I take requests!


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